


something blue

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 07:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul requests drag for his 25th birthday party, and his bandmates deliver.





	something blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittieMitties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieMitties/gifts).



> Credit to the fantastic, unbelievably lovely KittieMitties for the scenario. This is all due to you! Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy it!

The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul just liked wearing them. Even in junior high and high school, he’d been the lonely kid wearing outlandish outfits, the long-haired kid that people thought might be cool until he opened his mouth. It had taken years—it had taken KISS—before he could halfway manage to pair looking cool with being cool. Feeling cool, well. That was a lost cause.

The other guys ribbed him about it some, his tendency to go over the top with his clothes. It was hard to feel too bothered by it most of the time. Knowing the other three were going to spend the evening’s concert wearing nothing but BDSM gear, same as him, really curtailed the burn of any comments. Plus, for all the teasing, he knew that, ultimately, his bandmates got it, understood it. Would dress up themselves some even when they weren’t onstage.

They’d even been down for dressing in drag for his birthday party today.

So down. Maybe too down. Ace and Gene in particular had committed. He’d watched in their hotel room, not sure whether to be horrified or just amused, as they got out a couple of boxes of waxing strips and promptly deforested their legs. The whining during and afterward had been so minimal Paul wanted to ask if it wasn’t their first time. Meanwhile, Peter had just grabbed the first frock off the thrift store rack that fit him and called it good.

Paul didn’t mind. It was for the hell of it, anyway. Every damn day bled into the next while they were on tour. Even holidays didn’t have a draw to them anymore. Hanukkah got the prerequisite long-distance call to his parents, a litany of “yeah, Mom”’s while Gene stood over him with his hand out, waiting on the phone. Christmas got Peter grumbling around jewelry stores for Lydia and Ace following him around, perkily picking out things for himself and Jeanette both. Peter’s birthday was usually a drug fiasco; Paul’s… well, Paul’s was usually a little boring. The cake, the beer, the roadies. Play for a few thousand people, have a party with less than fifteen in some room backstage at the auditorium. He’d thought drag might liven things up a little. Give them all something to laugh at.

So Paul hadn’t put a whole lot of effort in, himself. He’d shaved his legs, but he hadn’t gotten rid of his five o’clock shadow. The dress was one he’d bought from some trendy boutique, floral print on black with a matching choker, and bell sleeves that weren’t quite enough of a distraction from the wideness of his shoulders. Maybe after the party he’d lob it off to the costume girl and have her cut it down into a top for him. Beyond that, well, he’d gotten a pair of black heels, stuffed a bra one of his groupies had left behind, and been done with it. He hadn’t even bought panties for the occasion, although Gene, in a rare moment of exhibitionism, had flipped up his skirt to show Paul his. Ace had done the same, albeit hesitantly, inching up the hem like he was trying to be coy, only showing one leg and a bony hip and half the underwear. But that brief look was enough. God, Ace had even matched the panties to the powder blue of his dress.

“You didn’t have to go that far, you know.” Even though Ace had dropped the hem after less than half a second, the image was already emblazoned in Paul’s head. The ruffles and lace looked like icing swirls on a tiered cake, no distraction at all from how poorly they contained Ace’s cock and balls. He must’ve been dying in that. A couple million sperm being strangled all for the sake of his party. Paul guessed it might save Ace some paternity lawsuits down the road.

“What kinda girl doesn’t match her underwear to her dress, Paulie?”

“You don’t even match your socks half the time.”

“It’s a special occasion! Hey, you only turn twenty-five once.” Ace said it as if it were something mystical, reaching over to flick Paul right in one breast. The tissues crumpled up inside his bra kept him from feeling anything, but he still rolled his eyes in response. “Thought you would’ve gone a little bigger with your tits there, though. I mean, you stuff your pants pretty good—”

“I do not stuff my pants.”

“Bullshit, I’ve roomed with you.” Ace started cackling, popping open a can of beer and taking a few long gulps before continuing. “You don’t gotta have a complex just ’cause of me and Peter—”

“I don’t! Shit, man.” Paul grabbed another piece of cake and a fork, scraping off the frosting and pushing it into a glob on the plate before scooping it into his mouth. Two sweet swallows of vanilla. Then the chocolate icing up the side from when they’d run out of the white.

“You want the rest of that?” Ace pointed to the bare piece of cake.

“I usually give it to Gene.”

“I’ll eat it. He’s had three already.”

Paul turned his head, catching sight of Gene across the room—he was talking to Lydia, just as casually as if he weren’t in a dress and strappy heels, holding a couple of empty plastic plates. Ace’s eyes followed his, and he snorted, cupping his hands over his forehead like he was a mariner searching for shore. He didn’t put his hands down until Paul looked back at him.

“What do you do that for?”

“Do what?”

“Look for Gene. What’s he gonna do, tell you no?”

“I don’t—”

“Fucking apron strings. You’re even like that in interviews! Shit, how’d he do that to you?”

“Do you want the cake or not?”

“You ain’t his little brother here, Paulie. You don’t need his permission for anything.” The corners of Ace’s mouth tilted up faintly. “Especially not giving away your own birthday cake.”

It wasn’t worth explaining. Ace probably wasn’t drunk yet, but Paul didn’t think he’d understand it even if he were sober. Ace wasn’t the type to admire anyone. But Gene just—had what Paul didn’t. Security. Self-importance. Intellectualism. When he’d first met him, it had pissed him off. When he’d started playing with him, he’d realized just what a boon it was. Ace and Peter could pop off all they wanted, but Paul knew damn well that Gene’s dogged promotion was what had secured their contract with Casablanca. He wasn’t going to forget that just because of KISS’ success. If it made him come off like Gene’s bitch to the other guys, well, that was too bad.

None of that mattered when Ace was still standing there with his hand out, waiting on the cake. Paul shrugged and handed over the plate. Ace didn’t bother with the fork, just took the cake in his hands and shoved it in his mouth. It was gone in two bites at best.

Ace wandered off after that, like a stray dog who’d gotten a couple scraps, leaving Paul alone at the dessert table. Paul didn’t really mind. He chatted with the roadies a bit, posed for a couple pictures beside the mangled cake for Lydia. He asked her if she planned on taking any group shots of the band, and almost started laughing at her shudder.

“Not with the way Peter looks. You can see the bra through his dress.”

“You can see his dick, too!” Ace piped up from a couple feet away. Lydia took a candid of Ace in retaliation, but he just snickered and hiked his skirt, managing a wobbly curtsy before the bulb flashed. Peter had to grab him to keep him from falling forward in the process. So much for thinking the man was still sober.

Paul wasn’t doing much thinking himself. Just watching everyone but him and Gene slowly get wasted. Terribly shy at his own fucking party, hanging around the refreshment table like a girl who’d gone stag to senior prom. The beer and frosting scrapings he’d had weren’t helping his nerves. It wasn’t tonight’s show that was worrying him—the shows never worried him. It wasn’t even his birthday getting to him. Like it could. Twenty-five was nowhere near the downhill slope. He felt great. He _was_ great. He was living his dream. Sure, it’d fall apart eventually, but eventually was a dim speck that only a lonesome night could ever turn into more. As long as someone was with him, whether bandmates or bedmates, anything painful, anything meaningful, could be shifted over to the side like so much cake on his plate.

No, it was petty, what was on his mind now. Pure rockstar excess. It wasn’t that he was upset about the hotel accommodations or the refreshment table or even the way the stars on his outfit didn’t reflect the stage lights as much as he wanted. No, he was upset about losing the silver garter he wore onstage. The most meaningless portion of his costume, the one thing nobody else cared about, and he had the gall to be upset about it. He’d even had the gall to enlist all the roadies that were willing to help in the search earlier today—all they’d found, in any of the hotel rooms, was Ace and Peter’s marijuana stashes (immediately consumed), several condoms, new and used, and some frankly disturbing groupie photos even Gene hadn’t wanted for his album. Paul was half-convinced that Gene had somehow both accidentally and soberly fucked the abominable snowman.

But the garter hadn’t turned up, and he was still ruminating over it as if it were important. He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t know why, but he really—really dug it when people reached up from the front row and snapped that garter. Didn’t matter if it was girls or drunk guys. He tried not to think too hard about what it meant, if he really was half-queer or if he was just so fucking desperate for affection that he’d accept it from anyone, male or female. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

The most pathetic thing about losing the garter was that it didn’t matter at all. Not to anyone but him. He had a couple back-ups at the ready, in case someone snapped the garter off, but it bothered him. He’d rather wear the same garter during the whole tour. Good luck, or maybe just comfortable routine. Maybe because it was tangible evidence of want, like Gene’s Polaroid collection. Something that stuck around long after the night’s groupies were gone. God knew how many fingerprints were on the thing. How much sweat, too.

Whatever. He shook his head, grabbing a Coke this time. He’d enjoy the rest of the party; they’d finish up, then get ready for the concert, back-up garter on, and—

“Ground control to Major Stannnnnley.”

Ace again. No, not just Ace. Peter was there, too, snagging another bottle of beer. And Gene, too, had apparently torn himself away from macking on a roadie’s girlfriend to come on over. It was kind of odd, them all bunched together like they were waiting on something.

“Yeah?”

“We got three hours before the show.”

“I know.”

“Means they’re gonna make us wrap this up soon.”

“Yeah, I know—” Paul paused. That vague feeling of dread was starting to crop up, making his skin prickle. The roadies seemed like they were heading towards the table now, too, none too subtle about it. Aucoin wasn’t looking their way, but he was smiling. Fantastic. Something was about to happen. Probably the guys had all chipped in to get him some obscene gag gift, like a giant dildo or a custom blow-up doll. Paul looked past the gathering crowd, hoping to spot someone carrying a box—with any luck, he could cut them off at the pass—but there was nothing. He cleared his throat. “Hey, you guys sang ‘Happy Birthday’ for me twice already. So what gives?”

“We heard you lost your garter.”

Gene’s face was set in such an impossibly straight line that Paul knew he had to be seconds from cracking up entirely. Paul threw him a suspicious look before answering.

“Yeah? It’s fine. I’ve got some extras—”

“Nah, you don’t need them.”

“Don’t tell me. You bought me a new garter.” Paul rubbed his forehead. “You spent a whole two bucks on me at the lingerie store. I’m so impressed.”

“You think that thing costs two bucks, Paul?” Gene again, his brow furrowed. “It’s custom. There aren’t that many girls with thighs as big as yours.”

“Shut up, Gene.” He could feel his face heating up as he took another survey of the room, staring at everybody in turn, trying to make sure he looked more annoyed than flustered. All right, so it wasn’t in a box, and wasn’t in anybody’s hands. That just left—“Okay, who’s wearing it?”

“Don’t look at me—”

“Peter, c’mon.”

“I swear I don’t have your fucking garter.”

Paul crooked his finger toward him. Peter started laughing.

“I swear to God, Paulie!”

“ _Up_.”

“Y’know, I usually do this to music…” Peter trailed before hiking up his skirt. Each inch exposed just how seriously he’d taken the drag suggestion, coarse leg hair a wince-inducing contrast to the beige maxi dress. Paul cleared his throat once the dress cleared his knees with no garter in sight, but Peter ignored him. He just kept raising that skirt until he got to the goods, the plain Hanes panties that were huge enough to hold his dick in place, though the elastic above it was drooping. The roadies started clapping and snickering, while Peter preened. “You want more and I’ve gotta charge. We got a rate set up yet, Lydia?”

“Keep this up and you might be free,” Lydia muttered.

“Baby—”

“Okay, next,” Paul snapped, looking at Gene. Gene just raised his hands.

“You already got a peek.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, now, don’t be greedy about it,” Gene said, smooth and enviably cool, as he set down his bottle of Coke and peeled up the skirt of his dress, earning a few more whoops from the crowd. The pleased grin plastered on his face made Paul want to shake him. He stopped mostly-short of the thong he was wearing, Paul regretting the bare glimpse he did get of the damn thing. No garter. Great. So that left the roadies, none of whom were dressed in drag, Aucoin, who saved any residual classlessness for gay bars, and the guy he probably should have suspected first.

“Ace.”

“Paulie.”

Ace was helping himself to another slice of cake. He’d done his makeup, Paul noticed belatedly. Not the greasepaint; just lipstick and mascara, maybe a little blush. It wasn’t heavyhanded. Back when they’d first started, back when they’d all tried for the New York Dolls look, Ace had been the only one who’d pulled it off. He’d looked like Shirley Maclaine—not glamorous, but cute, really cute—while the rest of the band looked like quarterbacks who’d lost a bet. Paul had been so disgusted with his own shots in particular. He could all but feel his own awkwardness emanating through each picture. Knew he’d been trying too hard, him and Gene and Peter, too, while Ace hadn’t been trying at all.

Right now, Ace still looked passably feminine. More than passably. Especially with his hair long, the black dye all but washed out, and the choker hiding his Adam’s apple and the light pink sheen to his lips. It was pretty disturbing, and Ace was only making it worse by staring innocently at Paul, licking a bit of frosting off his lips, taking some of the lipstick with it.

“You’ve got the garter.”

“I don’t, man. I already showed you, too.”

“Show me again.”

Ace didn’t wipe off his mouth before obliging, humming the beginning riff to “Parasite” as he raised the hem of his dress. Carefully. Again. Too carefully. Inching it up like he was revealing the Venus DeMilo to a crowd of perverts. He was getting the exact same view he had before, a view of a smooth leg and just the hint of a blue pair of panties. Paul narrowed his eyes.

“I’m only seeing one leg here.”

“You want all three or what?”

“I want my garter back.”

Ace snickered.

“At your service, sweetheart. Only ’cause it’s your birthday.”

And then he yanked the skirt all the way up. There it was, the silver fabric shimmering just slightly in the dim light. On Ace’s left leg, the one he hadn’t exposed earlier. Up almost to his crotch, the exact position Paul normally had it on himself. Aucoin had told him once no girl would’ve worn it that high, but Paul hadn’t cared—

“You caught me.” Ace was grinning. “Shit, I thought you would’ve figured it out faster! You overthink things, Paulie, you really do—”

“Give it here.”

“Nah. How about you take it off?”

“Ace, don’t be an ass—”

 “Go on. Take it off.” Ace was still holding up the hem of his dress. Dangling it like a clothesline in the wind. “Make me feel pretty.”

 Paul glanced at Gene, half-hating himself for doing it. Gene wasn’t coming to his rescue, anyway, offering just a shrug of his shoulders and a “you heard him.” Peter had stepped closer in to get a better look. Fine. Fine. He wasn’t going to prolong this. Paul headed to Ace and leaned over, reaching for the garter. He hadn’t so much as curled his fingers over the silver elastic before Ace snatched his hand, raising it up.

“Not like that, Paulie. You gotta do it proper.”

“Proper,” Paul repeated dully. Ace blinked, then laughed, letting go of Paul’s hand.

“Ain’t you ever been to a wedding?”

“I went to yours?”

“Aw, fuck, no wonder.” Ace shook his head. “You got teeth, don’t you?”

“Yeah—”

Ace hiked his dress a little higher, exposing himself all the way up to his navel. Paul’s face went crimson.

“Get under there, Paul.”

He could feel all of them staring at him. His bandmates, the handful of roadies, Aucoin. Not even fifteen people there, but it was still like a concert without amps. Just about terrifying. Just about terrifying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but bitch or whine or—or get under there.

He sunk to his knees in front of Ace, and felt Ace drop the skirt over his head, where it fell almost to his waist. The thin material was no barrier at all to the sounds of Peter whooping and Gene chuckling. Paul breathed in heavily, feeling his face flush darker and darker. God. _God._

He’d tug down the garter and be done with it. Ten seconds at worst.

 Ace’s dick, barely encased in those ruffled panties, wasn’t as unpleasant a counterpoint to the garter as it should’ve been. Distractingly big, even though he was soft right now. Wasn’t even the first time Paul had gotten this close to it. Ace and Peter fooled around all the time in the dressing room, finding it funny as hell to drape their dicks on Paul’s shoulders like a pair of fleshy epaulettes while he was trying to put on his makeup. They did it to Gene, too, only Gene threatened to bite them. Paul would just push them off.

He leaned forward, his nose bumping up against the jut of Ace’s hip on accident. Ace didn’t even move. Every breath was brushing right up against Ace’s skin as his teeth closed around the garter, started to slip it down, slowly, slowly, not wanting to tear the fabric. Halfway down his thigh now.

“Jesus, he’s taking forever.” Peter, grousing as usual.

“Nah, nah, he’s doing fine.” Paul could almost see the lazy smile spreading on Ace’s face. He twitched as Ace felt around, finding the top of his head and patting it through the dress as if he were a dog. “Just being careful, right?”

 Paul’s face felt like an inferno. The garter between his teeth was slightly damp with spit and barely above Ace’s knee. For all that the spandex and leather costumes showed them off, he hadn’t ever noticed just how long Ace’s legs were until now. His mouth was a quarter-inch at best from a thin, pale scar that spanned from Ace’s kneecap to mid-shin. Ace had blamed it on a spaceship crash, but Paul was pretty damn sure one of his car accidents was the real cause. It wasn’t a bad scar, wasn’t even particularly noticeable if he weren’t right up on it.

He didn’t mind. It was a relief to see some kind of blemish on Ace. Something to mar the casual, messy perfection of his playing and the uncomfortable mesh of a too-pretty face and crude mannerisms. Something that made him seem a little less untouchable. Drop him down from that pedestal he only ever reserved for people that were comfortable, that knew who they were, that didn’t ever seem to be anything but perfectly at ease even when they were flat on their backs on the stagefloor.

Paul took a quick inhale. Ace’s hand sunk down against his head again, fingers curling, pushing his hair back blindly through the cloth.

“Good girlie,” he said, out of nowhere. Paul heard Gene laugh somewhere behind him. “What? He is, Gene!”

“I think he likes it down there,” Peter said.

“Aw, ’m not gonna speak for Paul when he’s got his mouth full—"

He didn’t even think about it. Just a burst of awful inspiration, that was all, borne out of the need to shut Ace up, or get him nervy and embarrassed and fumbling the way he was. The way he always was. Awful inspiration that drove him to tug the garter between his teeth, stretching the elastic, and then let it go, watching it snap satisfyingly against Ace’s bare skin.

Ace’s knee twitched, his hand closing in a little tighter against his hair. But that was all. Paul knew that was all because he couldn’t hear anyone’s comments past the general din of the room itself. No one had said anything, so clearly, Ace hadn’t reacted. Still cool and casual as ever. Paul tried it again. No movement this time. Not even that unexpected shifting.

His arms, the lousy things, hanging stiffly by his sides, raised up. He heard an “uh-uh” from Ace, felt him back up just slightly when his hands closed over Ace’s smooth thigh instead of the garter beneath it. Paul’s heart rattled somewhere in his chest as he closed that last space between them and pressed his lips to Ace’s skin.

He felt it then. Ace starting to tilt forward, just a bit. Paul held his leg steady, breath hitching, expecting a curse he didn’t get.

“There you go, girlie… there you go…” If there was any teasing to Ace’s tone, Paul couldn’t hear it. Nothing but encouragement, encouragement that was sending awful spikes of warmth into Paul’s veins. He was trying to embarrass the hell out of him, and Ace was just eating it up. No way. Just no way. Paul’s breath hitched as he pressed another kiss to Ace’s thigh, and another, and another. Hoping for something. A wriggle, an awkward murmur. Something. Ace only coiled his fingers up against his hair through the fabric, up and down, smooth, gentle pets too approving to be believed.

 Paul shut his eyes, licking lightly against Ace’s skin, the faint taste of sweat on his tongue as his hands tightened around Ace’s leg. Finally, Ace was reacting again. Ace’s fingers were grasping at his head, not forcing, just tilting it up and over. Paul let him. He let him even as he realized Ace was turning his face directly towards the panties.

“Jesus, Paul, are you stuck? Should we put a canary under there?”

“He’s good! I told you, he’s just… just being real gentle…” Paul could hear the brief pauses between the words. Ace was testing him. Teasing him. Seeing if he’d go for it. Drawing this out until Paul hit his limit. Counting on Paul’s limit being way before his own, because it always had been. Because Paul would stop short where Ace would plow ahead. Because Paul was tied down to his own insecurities while Ace just didn’t give a damn. Because Paul would get ruffled at all sorts of shit that Ace would just let ride. It wasn’t going to be like that. Not tonight.

Paul’s teeth caught on the edge of Ace’s panties, right up against his hip. They were a lot thinner than the garter. Less resistance as he tugged them down by that single edge, leaving the panties lopsided, leaving Ace to deal with straightening them back out later. He managed to free Ace’s half-hard cock with just his mouth, murmuring against it, offering tentative licks that only got more determined as his hands moved from Ace’s leg to grasp at his hips, clutching them. He’d never done this before. Didn’t have the luxury of being drunk to cover up this insanity. Didn’t have the luxury of being alone with him, either, the crowd a presence the skirt didn’t cover up in the slightest from his senses. But he didn’t _care_ as Ace’s hips bucked slightly against his fingers and his lips curled around his teeth like he’d seen a dozen girls do just this month alone. Paul’s mouth slid open easily, engulfing Ace’s cock inch by inch, spit laving the veiny surface. He heard a sharp inhale of breath, felt one of Ace’s legs start to wobble as he hissed.

“F-fuck, Paulie…” And then Ace’s grip tightened again, tugging him firmly away. Paul mumbled around his cock before letting it go, pressing one more teasing kiss against Ace’s thigh. Ace guided him insistently back towards the garter, Paul obliging, pulling it past his knee, down to his shin before unclasping it with his hands. Ace didn’t let go of his head until the garter was undone and back in his mouth, raising the skirt so Paul could crawl back out to the sound of applause from the guys.

He hadn’t expected Ace’s hand there to pull him up to his feet. Hadn’t expected Ace to be smiling through his hard-on just like he was onstage. But he was.

“Nice work, girlie.” Ace tugged lazily at the garter still in Paul’s mouth. Paul let him have it, against his own better judgment, but Ace only kissed the garter and handed it back, then turned to the group, holding up his arm like he was presenting the new heavyweight champion. “All right! All right, give ’im another hand, yeah!”

They did. Paul looked from one amused, drunken face to the next and couldn’t even feel himself flush. Mr. Sobriety was gulping down the rest of his Coke and shaking his head. Grinning. One of the other roadies came in a bit after, talking about the setup, the stage, and Uriah Heep’s supply of dope, and they all started to filter out. Somebody took what was left of the cake with them, probably bringing it back to the hotel. Paul hung back at first, watching the guys clean up before heading towards the door himself—now that he had the garter back, he might as well go to the dressing room and start getting ready—when Ace draped an arm over his shoulder from behind.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“You left me hanging, man.” Without even turning to face him, Paul could almost see Ace’s lazy smile. One more step and Paul could feel his hard-on through the dress, brushing against his thigh. Ace hadn’t had the shame to adjust his panties after. “Surprised me, y’know? Thought sure you’d flip out—”

“It’s not—I was only—” Goddamnit. He was actually confronting him about it. Paul forced himself to look Ace in the eyes, feeling his cheeks go warm again as he tried to explain. “I mean, I wanted to—”

“You wanted to?”

“No! It’s just—”  

“S’okay, Paulie. I wanted you to, too.” Ace laughed. “But fuck, man, you gotta make sure everybody’s a little more wasted before you suck a guy off in front of the whole damn crew.”

 “I wasn’t going to,” Paul started, feebly, watching Ace’s hand slide down from his shoulder to cup one tissue-stuffed breast. Squeeze it. Paul was pretty sure he couldn’t feel anything past the padding, but the sharp jolt of want singeing through his insides proved him wrong. “I just wanted to see you squirm.”

“Can’t see anything with that dress on over you.” Ace cackled. “But we got time now, if you really want a good look.”

“Ace—”

“Hell, I’ll return the favor. It’s your birthday, you’ve been a pretty good girl… ain’t knocked up too many chicks this year—”

“It’s January.”

“Exactly. What do you say, Paulie?”

Paul swallowed. His fingers found Ace’s hand, the one still cupping his chest. Tightened around it like he was about to yank Ace’s hand away. He could almost swear he still tasted Ace’s cock in his mouth, the heaviness of him. The way it had all felt for those few minutes, the way everything had stopped mattering except the feel of Ace’s hand on his head and his approving words. Girlie, he’d kept calling him girlie and he should’ve punched him in the nuts for it, concert or no, but he’d liked it, he’d liked it as much as he’d liked every little breathy hitch and every press of skin on skin, the feel of the lacy fabric against his tongue and teeth. Depraved and vulgar and exactly what he wanted.

He raised Ace’s hand up to his lips and started to suck on his forefinger, tongue sliding all the way down to his wedding ring, swiping away the faint traces of cake crumbs and frosting still there. Behind him, Ace stiffened slightly, and Paul glanced back, only to see those dark eyes all dilated, all amused, only to hear three more words.

“All right. C’mon.”

It wasn’t five minutes before Ace had Paul barricading both doors with a couple of tables turned sideways, and it wasn’t six before Ace’s hands were all over Paul, back to playing with his chest at first, then sliding down, squeezing his ass through the dress. Paul grunted—stupidly, he’d expected Ace would just want his hard-on taken care of, and not want any other touching—but he did. That was all right. Paul tilted his head to the side, leaning in to try to kiss Ace’s neck, what little the choker didn’t cover up, but Ace caught him first, lips pushing against his with an urgency he’d never expected. Ace’s lipstick was smearing all over his mouth with each wet kiss, claiming him better than any groupie, leaving him panting as their hips collided, barely able to think past his own insane need.

By the time he dropped to his knees, they were already starting to buckle, the thin stiletto heels somehow seeming like a pair of impossibilities he’d strapped on. He was surprised when Ace sank down to the floor, too, grabbing his arms and tugging Paul on top of him.

It was jarring, looking down at Ace like that. Could’ve almost been convinced he was a chick if his groans and hard-on didn’t give him away. It threw him off, but he dug it, somehow. There was a filthy pleasure there. He was into it, getting into it, cupping Ace’s smooth jaw and touching his lips to Ace’s ear like he was about to whisper something sweet, the way he used to with groupies before they just came with the room. The way he used to with girlfriends before even that term lost its meaning. Kissing him hard, muffling Ace’s grunts with his mouth.

Beneath him, Ace’s hips rocked insistently against his, the thin fabric of the dresses making the friction twice as satisfying, no comparison to the harsh rub of jeans or slacks against each other. Paul wasn’t sure if the spreading wetness against the fabric was his precum or Ace’s or both, and he didn’t care. Ace’s hand grazed Paul’s cheek before sliding back into his mussed curls, tugging through the tangles, the motion too tender to match the needy rutting, whispering against his neck—

“Get down there, Paulie.”

Paul did. He hiked Ace’s dress up before settling between his thighs. He tugged the panties down to his knees, planning to stop there, but a grunt from Ace made him slide them off all the way, the lacy fabric catching briefly on one of Ace’s heels.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ace mumbled, so Paul tossed the panties aside to the floor. From there it was easy enough. Less intimidating now to be anchoring his hands to Ace’s bony hips, to be leaning down, breathing hard through his nose as he started to lap against the full length of Ace’s cock. Almost no teasing—Paul didn’t know how. The chicks were always so overcome by just _having_ him that they never dared.

He got as much of Ace’s dick in his mouth as he could before he started to suck in earnest. Ace’s hand found his head again, no more casual petting but grasps and tugs, urging Paul to start bobbing his head up and down his cock. Paul let him take the lead, trying hard to hum around the throatful, vaguely impressed he hadn’t yet choked. No letting Ace know he hadn’t done this before. No letting him know, but Paul guessed he might’ve known anyway, from the way he kept his hips fairly steady on the floor, the way he never outright yanked Paul by the hair to try and get him to fuck his mouth. Only toward the end did Ace start to get unraveled, really unraveled, grunting, whole body starting to tense and twitch, rejecting the pace he’d set. Paul drank in every response, every curse. Started fondling his balls as he laved attention on his dick, watching the look in Ace’s eyes get more heady and distant and too-close all at once. It sent a thrill through Paul that made his cock ache all the more, watching and feeling him tense up, building toward orgasm, almost there, he knew it, almost—

“Fuck, Paulie. _Fuck_ , girlie, you got it, you got it…” Ace trailed, grip tightening on Paul’s curls. Paul watched Ace’s eyes slide shut, mouth slipping open into a low moan. “Been so good… I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” he warned, seconds before orgasm hit, leaving Paul still hopelessly unprepared. Half his come ended up splattered on Paul’s face. The rest he’d swallowed on accident, barely registering the taste on his tongue.

He raised his head up, almost dazed, lifting his sleeve towards his face. Ace sat up and grabbed it before he could start to wipe himself off, a slow smile easing itself across his face.

“Uh-uh. ’M not gonna let you mess up your birthday dress like that.”

“What, you don’t have a towel—”

“Don’t need one.” Ace’s dress rustled as he shifted to his knees, thighs splayed. He leaned in, resting his hands on Paul’s shoulders. Paul didn’t have time to question him before Ace’s tongue was tracing over the come on his face, licking it up without so much as a shudder. Each lap against his cheeks and nose and forehead tingled, making Paul want to squirm, but he didn’t, Ace pressing into him as he finished up, one hand diving beneath his bra, slipping past the tissues to squeeze each breast in turn.

“You got hard for me, girlie,” Ace said, then laughed. “Well, obviously, but…” and he twisted Paul’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, chuckling as Paul took a sharp gasp for breath, “right _here_. ’S nice, ’s real nice… now why don’t you lay back down for me, there, yeah… sweet girlie, good girlie…”

Ace followed him down, dragging a few lazy kisses down the side of Paul’s damp face as he spoke. Paul’s hands were on the hem of his own dress before Ace could get there, tugging it up while Ace was still on top of him. Ace’s eyes glinted in sheer amusement at that, and for a second, Paul faltered, still holding onto the dress, sure that Ace was about to tease or try and deny him or something agonizing like that, but he only grinned.

“I’m getting there! C’mon, have a little faith, yeah?” But he was scooting down, the soft slide of dress against dress nothing short of sinful. He flipped up Paul’s dress the rest of the way, all the way up to just below the bra, exposing his plain black boxers, the fabric straining to hold his erection in place. “Oh, Paulie, that’s not very ladylike…”

“I wasn’t gonna strangle my dick for my own party.”

“Next time, then.” Ace yanked Paul’s boxers all the way down, tossing them aside, nudging Paul’s legs apart with his knee as if he needed to. Paul watched him sink down, watched him kiss and lick at the insides of his thighs, running his fingers against the soft flesh. His heart was racing far before Ace’s mouth met his dick, started to swallow him up, taking him on easily, eagerly. Ace’s hands were roving over his skin, dragging across his thighs and hips and rubbing against his hairy torso. It was bizarre just watching his own chest rise and fall, the contrast between it and the soft fabric and his bare, smooth legs jarring, as jarring as watching Ace work his cock while his dress fanned out underneath him. One of Ace’s legs was up, bent lazily, the strappy leather heel catching the dim fluorescent light—ankle twitching just a little as Ace’s head bobbed up and down his dick, flecks of spit there at the corners of his mouth.

Paul was crying out before long, wordlessly at first, then curses, then, finally, Ace’s name in a loud, ragged plea. Closer. Closer. No holding out, but he wanted something to latch onto, something in all this unreality, all this confusion. His hands clasped at Ace, touching his hair before finding his shoulders instead, rubbing and then clinging against them, nowhere near in time to Ace’s mouth or even his own twitching thrusts inside it. Not enough touch. Not enough to ground him. Paul grunted, shifted beneath Ace, hooking his ankle around Ace’s own, the one on the floor. Ace didn’t move, but Paul could’ve sworn his expression changed, softened, just for a second before Paul’s own vision whirled into a miasma in front of him and he screamed out his own orgasm with one last shudder.

Ace swallowed it all down. Paul just lay there for a few seconds, before letting go of Ace’s shoulders, unlocking his ankle from Ace’s. It almost felt like too much trouble to sit up, but he did, slowly, raising himself up on his forearms, dress starting to shift back down from the movement. Ace tugged it the rest of the way, and then Paul stumbled to his feet, wobbling slightly, breathing nowhere near normal yet.

“Ace,” he said. Ace looked up at him. Paul reached out his hand, tugging Ace up the way he’d done a dozen times or more, on and offstage. The makeup was gone now, swept away by kisses and sweat, the illusion starting to falter. But right now, that didn’t matter. Right now, that didn’t matter a bit. “Thanks, Ace.”

Paul didn’t know how to word it. If to word it. If to dare give voice to all kinds of weird, troublesome shit, and instead, he’d kept holding Ace’s hand. Longer than he should’ve. Squeezing it, even, feeling stupider every moment he did. He could imagine the look on his face right now, sated but wanting, desperately wanting, like that last idiot groupie in the Coop, nothing like the look Ace was giving him back. Couldn’t be. Just couldn’t.

He dropped his hold on Ace’s hand. Ace just smiled and took it again, palm hot against his own.

“Thanks for what, girlie?”

“For… for getting me off.”

“Hey. If you’re good, you get off every time.” Ace lifted Paul’s hand to his mouth, pressed a quick kiss to his wrist. Paul thought he might wink at him, or bow, or make some exaggerated curtsy, but he didn’t. Just let go of his hand. Just leaned in one last time to steal another kiss and another grope. Just that, and that was everything. “Happy birthday, Paulie.”


End file.
